Lullaby Goodnight my Angel
by QuietSatyr
Summary: Jonathan refused to go quietly into that dark night. He made it through alive, swearing vengeance as he retreated to the only sanctuary he had left. Little did he know, demon blood would only protect him so far. M for language and sexual themes. Completed
1. It's Not Over

Chapter One

It's Not Over

It was too cold; so cold his entire body was numb with it. It wasn't easy, then, forcing himself awake. He had lost too much blood and was losing more with each passing second. He had to cauterize the wound, since he had no stele, but he also had no fire. He pushed himself into a sitting position, using a tree as a backrest, as support. He closed his eyes, panting from the effort to get up. The bark was rough, but it hardly mattered. He forced his eyes open once more, and using his teeth and one good hand, tore a long strip from his shirt—it was wet and filthy, but it would do. He tied the sopping material around the stump where his hand ought have been, then collapsed back against the tree, gasping, coughing violently. He knew he was in trouble. He could no longer feel the cold pricks of the falling rain on his grey skin. With bleary eyes he looked at the makeshift bandage. Blood had already soaked it a startling crimson. He smiled grimly, and weakly but thoroughly, cursed that bastard his father had half-raised; the one who tried to claim _his_ name, Jonathon.

He stared blearily out at the pouring rain, watching the grey curtain fall with listless apathy. He was a dead man, he knew it. Then he saw it, glittering not ten feet away, hidden by the long-stemmed leaves of grass. A stele, and possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever set eyes on. With a feral burst of energy, he lunged for it. With a hasty, shaking hand, he gripped the slippery thing and drew runes for healing on his exposed flesh. The bite of the stele was a welcome sting as the marks began to take effect. He knew they wouldn't save him, but they bought him time—and energy. Energy he would surely need if he wanted to put distance between himself and this clearing. That bitch Isabelle and whoreson Jace would be coming back to make sure they finished the job, no doubt.

He stumbled to his feet, nearly slipping in the mud, but made it to his feet. He began to walk, cradling his wounded stump against his chest. There was a refuge he knew of, a place hidden in the forest—one his father had made, Valentine had said, solely for him. He had been there once, when he was thirteen. He had not been permitted inside, but had seen a woman, bland, unremarkable, in the wooden doorway. His father had given her something, something Jonathon had not been able to decipher. He had seen, as the two adults stood in the doorway, a curtain in the attic window of the little cabin, rustle. The white lace Jonathon had thought tacky, a waste of perfectly good cloth, had then drawn his rabid fascination. It did not, however, stir again. When Valentine had returned, Jonathon had looked up at the taller man with matching features and questioned,

'Father, what is in there? And why did you give something to that woman? What was it?'

Valentine had grinned in a cold kind of satisfaction. 'You'll see when you're older, boy. Just know that what is in there is for you, and you alone.'

Jonathon's eyesight was dimming, the edges of his vision growing fuzzy. To couple that, he could no longer hold his hand steady enough to trace new runes; they came out as painful squiggles, meaning- and worthless. The ground was steep here, and thick with mud. He tried to keep his footing sure, but his ankle gave out and rolled when his foot skimmed over a hidden rock. He tumbled down, slamming into the hill with a jarring force. The mud softened the fall a bit, but it was loose and plastic. He rolled, picking up speed, unable to stop. His body, broken and tender as it was, slammed into a tree, effectively stopping his movement, but snapping a rib at the same time. His eyes, black stars, flew open wide before the rolled back into his skull as he slid into unconsciousness. Nod, demon and king of the slumbering, met him with open arms.


	2. The River of Dreams

Chapter Two

The River of Dreams

He had many dreams that turbulent night—dreams of his father, his sister, even mother. He dreamed he had died and had gone to Hell, his body forever either frozen or racked with a feverish heat as if he were on fire. His father was right beside him, screaming as he was engulfed in a pit of molten lava, body dissolving only to form anew and melt again. A female demon, looking like a beautiful woman, white breasts bared, smiled tauntingly on with black pits for eyes, her plump lips pulled back over sharpened canines.

And then there was the angel. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, so beautiful he felt nearly ashamed to be in her sight. And he was envious of the golden glow of heavenly light that seemed to surround her, to penetrate the very air she breathed. She watched him with kind, golden eyes. Her perfect skin was covered in swirling runes of vibrant light, runes that seemed almost alive. She was running towards him, collapsed, broken and weathered, in his arms.

He held her, felt the chill of her skin against his own feverish flesh. Then he felt the liquid warmth spreading against his stomach, soaking his shirt and pants. He pushed her back, gazed in horror at the hole in her chest, an angel blade piercing her breast, slicing her heart. Blood, golden and singing, poured from the wound, drenching them both. Jace was suddenly there, staring on in horror. He shook his head in denial, backing away slowly, his hands dripping her golden blood.

Jonathon let the angel slide from his arms, turning blazing eyes to Jace. He would kill him, kill him, damn it all! The angel, on her knees, grabbed the hem of his pants, and held out her arms in supplication, silver tears weeping from her glowing golden eyes.

"Forgive thine enemies. Seek solace in God's love," she whispered, speaking past the blood as it dribbled down her chin. "Forgive them…Jonathon."

She threw back her head and let out a scream, a single beautiful note of sorrow as her body fragmented into a thousand beams of light. One flew at Jonathon, piercing his eyes, stabbing his heart. Blood, black and vile, welled up through the new wound in his chest as he stared down in horror, death closing in before his eyes.

~*~

Jonathon sat up, screaming raggedly until his throat burned; until he felt he had torn the delicate flesh there. Cool hands, soft and tender, pushed him down, back onto a stiff mattress.

"Sh," someone hushed, hands now smoothing back his hair, as might a mother. "You're safe. Go back to sleep. I'll stay by your side."

The voice was sweet, low and gentle, clearly feminine. The panic in Jonathon's chest relaxed, the tension releasing from his taut muscles. He was alive. He was alive and for the moment, safe. His eyes, unseeing, slid closed, and he passed out once more, unable to fight his body's need to rest. He did not stir again for at least ten hours.

* * *

**AN**: I forgot in the first chapter to mention, but quite clearly I don't own any of the characters or themes in this story. Cassandra Clare is the proud owner, as I'm sure we all know.


	3. Broken Toy

Chapter Three

Broken Toy

Soup. He smelled soup. An intoxicating blend of herbs, wine and cheese assailed him as he lied in bed, struggling awake. His stomach gurgled, complaining of its pangs and the neglect done to it. Jonathon forced his eyes, caked and dry, open. Whosever room this was had kindly enough thought to close the drapes over the windows, blocking out the growing light of morning.

The room itself could only be described as 'quaint' and clearly belonged to a woman. The curtains had frills, there was a bowl of flowers on the dresser just beside the armoire; a quilt, folded and bright, sat happily on a rocking chair by the window. Directly beside the wooden-framed twin he had slept on (complete with matching quilt), was a nightstand of matching light wood. Sitting atop this nightstand was a steaming bowl of soup and mug of what Jonathon guessed to be tea. He didn't wait to be invited. He scooped up the bowl with his left hand and, balancing the bowl between his knees, dug in.

It burned his tongue, but he was too hungry to care. He ignored the pain and continued shoveling the food into his mouth, swallowing large hunks of potato whole, registering only a vaguely pleasant taste in his haste to eat. He picked the bowl up again and tilted it back, spoon abandoned, swallowing the remains eagerly, his throat working hard. There was a piece of rough bread on a plate beside the tea he had somehow missed. In a few bites, he too had taken care that morsel. He was, however, more cautious with the tea as steam swirled around the mugs lip. He drank enough to realize it was herbal (chamomile mixed with mint and rose hips with a splash of honey and lemon) and to satisfy his thirst, then set the mug aside.

It was all coming back to him—how that _bastard_ Jace with that raging whore Isabella had bested him—no! Sabotaged him in his moment of victory, stolen it and left him for dead beside the river. He snarled, cursing heartily as he stared blackly at his missing hand. There was a fresh bandage, more carefully wrapped than his previous one, and it was dry, free of blood. Those little shits would pay—and pay dearly. He had plans for them. If his father had not taken care of them yet, he would. He would make sure they suffered; lost everything they loved, and then died themselves. He smiled wickedly, a feral grimace. Such thoughts brought him intense pleasure.

Jonathon leaned back against the down pillows, eyes brooding, smirk tightly in place as he glowered at the wall. He imagined all the ways he would torture them—starting with Isabelle. He relished in the things he planned to do to that bitch's pristine white flesh. Just as he was getting lost in the daydream, he heart a creak from just beyond the door.

He was out of bed in a flash, noting that along with his shirt, his shoes were gone. More runes, he saw, had been burned onto his skin—runes for accelerated healing. He traced one with a fingertip, then looked for a weapon. He went through the drawers and found naught but clothing—some for a child, some for a woman—and a few broken wooden figures, lying limp and alone beside an open bag of crushed potpourri. He cursed again under his breath and made for the door anyway. He could kill one-handed; he'd done it before, on that Sebastian brat.

The door opened without a creak, revealing a long and narrow staircase down. Through the dim space, he could make out another door there, at the bottom. He was weak still, and breathing too deeply hurt, but what choice did he have? He couldn't let himself be unprepared—he had to know with whom he was dealing.

He lighted down the steps on bare and silent feet. This door too was open. When it pushed it ajar, he quickly took in his surroundings.

It all seemed to be one room, a large one, nevertheless. There was a large fireplace with a bed beside, partitioned by a sheer curtain from the rest of the room; an old breakfast table, light wood with two mismatched, overstuffed chairs. There was even a small kitchen complete with gas stove, oven and, what seemed, an antique sink. But it was what was standing before the sink that drew his attention.

A young woman, perhaps sixteen, stood, staring at him, expressionless. Her hair, long and golden, hung in loose waves to her waist; her skin was alabaster and she had the largest blue eyes he had ever seen.

When he continued to stare at her, unmoving, she decided he was waiting for her to speak.

"You're up, I see," she said in a clear voice. "Which you shouldn't be. Your wounds were extensive and haven't had adequate time to heal. Go back to bed. I'll be with you shortly, to see if you need anything."

That being said, she turned her back to him—like an idiot, who knew if he would attack?—expecting him to do as he was bid. He did not. Instead he sat down at the table, in the chair positioned in such a way as to have vantage to see the girl and all the potential entrance points. She glanced at him sideways and her already muted expression hardened, her lips growing tight and pale.

"That's Mother's chair."

Jonathon looked about, then raised a brow. "Well, clearly she's not using it at the—"

"She's dead. But it's still _her_ chair."

They stared at each other, Jonathon smugly at ease, the girl taut and tense. Her jaw clenched and she turned her back on him again. She began clattering about in the sink, her movements as she did the dishes sharp and jerking. She continued this way for longer than Jonathon thought she would. He had assumed her need to break the silence that had settled over them like frost would prevail, and she would, like a weakling, speak to him. She did not, but continued as if the silence and his very presence meant nothing to her.

"You live alone?" he asked, wanting as much information from her as he could worm out. The more he knew, the better prepared he would be. Though she wore long sleeves and a long skirt, he could tell from small bits of her exposed skin that she was not a Mundie. She had fine webs across her skin, telltale signs of old marks.

"Clearly," was her stark reply.

"How long ago did you find me?" Sooner or later she would discover who he was, what he had done. He had to leave before then.

"Three days," she finally turned, frowning lightly as she gazed at him, dish towel draped over her arm. "It was difficult to move you." She then motioned at the fireplace. "Your shirt is there. I also made you a pair of pants, so I can was those filthy ones." She folded the towel neatly and put her hands on her hips. "Since you won't go back to bed, you can change now and bring me the pants and your sheets. I'll be out back, getting the water ready."

On silent feet she exited the little cabin, through the back door. Jonathon sat a moment, thinking. How could he use the situation to best benefit himself? If he made this mysterious woman his friend, then he could use her later—or at least give himself enough time to recover safely before slipping away.

That decided, he stood on nimble legs and, holding in a wince of pain as his ribs twinged, made his way back upstairs to get the sheets.

He nearly dropped them, once he stepped outside, now wearing the pants she had made for him so quickly. He knew where he was—knew it precisely, though he had but been there once, and a few years ago, when he was thirteen. The girl turned towards him and gave him mildly surprised eyes.

"Are you well?"

Jonathon swallowed, regaining his composure. "Who are you?"

The girl frowned at him. "That's a polite way to ask. My name is Arella. You never told me your name, you know, so there's no reason to be snippy."

"Jonathon," he said, seeing no need to lie to her, not when she lived in his father's cabin. "Jonathon Morgenstern."

Something in her expression hardened and she took his clothes and sheets silently from him. She gave him her back again, dumping the load into the wash bin. She began to scrub it all with unnecessary force.

"Did you hear me? I said I'm Jonathon Morgenstern," he said testily, grabbing her arm to force her to turn.

She jerked, deftly twisting from his grasp. "Don't _touch_ me! You've no right to touch me!" Her breathing was chaotic, her cheeks flushed with color. Jonathon advanced on her menacingly.

"What are you doing here? What did my father want with you and your mother? What are you hiding here?" He itched to touch her, to pray the secrets out of that ivory skin, past her rosebud lips. He grew excited, thinking about blood welling up on that porcelain flesh, the soft cries of pain she would make. His muscles tightened in anticipation, and his pulse jumped in his throat.

"I've lived here my entire life," she spat, holding her ground. Her eyes flashed blue flame at him. "You've no right to be here," she hissed at him, hands curling into tight fists. "I've never wanted you to come!"

Jonathon stared at her, confusion clouding his desire to hurt her. "What are you talking about?"

"Like you don't know," she said, bitterness choking her voice. "Like you don't know exactly why I'm here. Why _you're_ here. I bet he sent you, didn't he? This was just a ploy! He knew I wouldn't be able to just leave you, broken and alone in the woods. What? Did he think my 'soft heart' would fawn at the very sight of you? That he'd brainwashed me so utterly that your very name would make me sigh?" She took a deep, shaking breath, tears, silver and pure, welling in her eyes. "I'm nobody's pawn! Nobody's! I don't belong to him and I certainly do not belong to you!"

Jonathon could do little but scowl at her. "I don't know what you're talking about, you stupid git."

"I wasn't born yesterday Morgenstern."

Jonathon raked his hand through his hair, tugging on the white strands in frustration. "I don't _know_," he said emphatically, eyes narrowed. "You're lying. My father would never have kept something from me. Not like this. He told me everything. _Everything_." Except…he hadnt' said what it was that was in the cabin, had he?

Arella sneered at him. "If you're telling the truth, then go ask _him_. Where is he anyway?"

Jonathon was silent a moment. "If he hasn't already come, after three days," he clenched his jaws as he stared at her, met her eye, "then he is dead."

The girl was stunned into silence, her eyes wide, pallor becoming pale. "Oh. Jonathon I…I grieve your loss. He was not a good man, but he always spoke of you with pride."

"Why?" Jonathon asked, as if to himself, "Why did he tell you of me, but not me of you? I don't understand. Tell me, Arella." Her name was like a bitter tonic, and he spat it out like he would poison.

Arella looked away, her eyes on the sky visible beyond the tops of the trees—grey as steel. "It doesn't matter now. Not if he's dead."

He watched her, chest tight with anger, seething. His appearance, however, remained calm and placid, and his tone was smooth, almost genteel. "Oh? Then tell me this—why shouldn't I kill you right now? If you're of no use to me?"

She looked down at her hands, the scars and veins that decorated her skin, raw from soap. A small smile quirked her lips. "Kill me?" she asked, almost rhetorically. "Kill me," she whispered, dumbfounded, as her hands fell uselessly to her sides. "That seems appropriate. I was, after all, made for you. It seems fitting then, that I die…by your hand."


	4. Dans Les Bras d'Un Loup

Chapter Four

Dans Les Bras d'Un Loup

The two stood in silence a long while, regarding each other with wary gazes.

"No?" Arella finally asked. "Then if you'll excuse me—I've laundry to do." She walked briskly back to the large tin tub and began scrubbing the mud stains from his pants with a rather wild abandon. She kept giving him her back, taking her eyes off of him; she was either innocently naïve or incredibly stupid. Possibly both, he decided.

Unable to stomach being so not only ignored but totally unconcerned with, as if he _wasn't _a dangerous warrior, Jonathon stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him, rattling the frame. He almost tripped over the linen pants that crazed, closed-mouth slut had made. She had hemmed them too long, overestimating his height. Just to be spiteful, he sat back in her mother's chair, scowling as he dug gouges out of the soft wood with his fingernails. He took pleasure in the pain he received from splinters as they gouged the skin of his fingertips, making one bleed. If she was telling the truth, and _damn_ her she probably was, what was he to do? How was he to get the truth from her?

He snarled, cursing her (and her mother) thoroughly. That out of the way, he decided the best—and only thing really—to do was to make her _want_ to tell him. Tell him everything. He slid lower in the chair, a slow and enticingly wicked smile spreading across his kissable lips. That he could do. He knew very well how to be charming. He would break her yet. And enjoy doing so, that was for certain.

~*~

Arella paused outside the door, gathering her courage as her heart thudded wildly against her ribs. She had, rather rashly, told him to kill her. That she had been made for him. Was she stupid? Surely she must be, for she had vowed to herself she would never let Valentine's plan see fruition—that she would prove that evil man _wrong_. She had spent the past year, since her mother had died and she had read the journals, the ones her mother had kept hidden, trying to break the brainwashing Valentine had done to her. And, until she had told that damn man what she had said she would not, she had thought she had done a good job. Not good enough, apparently.

She gritted her teeth and walked inside, arms full of line-dried sheets and Jonathon's now-clean pants. Funny. She was already acting like his keeper—wife or mother. Everything she had sworn never to be. Not to him. She felt a migraine coming on.

He stood when she came in. He had started a fire and was crouched by the fireplace. She couldn't read his expression, but it had lost the hostility from earlier. Perhaps he was sorry for having threatened her? No, Arella cautioned herself, she must not fall for any game he played; he was, after all, Valentine's son.

"Here," he said, walking to her. "Let me. If I'm going to stay long enough to fully heal, I'm going to be as light a burden as I am able."

She looked at him warily, eyes narrowed as he took the pile from her. "And then you'll leave?"

"If that's what you want," Jonathon said, casually shrugging, as if he didn't care either way. He flinched visibly at the action as if it had pained him, his ribs clearly complaining. Arella frowned, quickly taking the load back. It wouldn't do if he kept injuring himself carelessly.

"Stop it, Jonathon. I'll do this. You rest," her voice, when she spoke, was almost gentle. It was as if she couldn't help but take care of him when he was in pain. He had counted on that. He smiled inwardly, glad his little ploy had worked so well. This was going to be easier than he thought. She clearly had strong maternal instincts. He could play on that.

Jonathon pulled them away. "No. I can do this."

"With one hand?" she asked bluntly, uncaring how he might not want to be _reminded_ of the fact. One look at the color draining from his face and her voice, when she spoke again, softened, "Here—we'll do it together. Okay? Just let me carry half the load. There's no need for you to further aggravate your wounds."

She pulled some of the sheets from him, ignoring his sulking frown. She walked past him quickly and with a lithe grace, almost floating as she went up the stairs, sans another word. Jonathon scowled at her back, but quickly mastered his expression. It would take patience, but he was definitely going to get on her good side. He was going to make her trust him, and then he would destroy that fragile bond, demolish it absolutely. And, he thought, grinning, he would enjoy seeing her crestfallen face when he did.

Jonathon, of course, began trying to put the sheets on the slender bed himself once upstairs, ignoring the expression on Arella's face. She snapped at him.

"Are you _trying_ to hurt your ribs even more? Go sit down! I'll do this."

He frowned at her, making sure his expression was none too severe. "I'm not weak. I _can_ help, Arella."

Arella froze at her name on his lips. She looked down and swallowed, her hands seeming to tremble slightly. Why? she asked herself, before she gripped her hands into tight fists and met his eye, glowering.

"Sit _down_, Morgenstern. It will be faster if I do it anyway."

Jonathon finally sat in the rocking chair, trying to appear calm, perhaps a little hurt as he contemplated what her expression could have meant. He said nothing, but gazed out the window. The sky was clearing up, from what he could see. And then she was done, heading for the door, in what had seemed like no time at all. Then again, she had probably made that bed thousands of times.

"Wait," he said, surprising them both. She paused, blinking large blue eyes at him a color that could rival the sky. She waited in silence for him to continue.

"Ah…where are you going?"

Arella allowed him a half-suspicious look. "Downstairs. To finish cooking dinner. Why?"

He shifted in the rocking chair, suddenly uncomfortable in its wooden frame. Why, indeed? He doubted she would believe it was because he didn't want to be alone. He wasn't even sure himself if that _was _the reason.

"Where am I meant to shower? I could certainly use one," he said, making a slight face at the way he smelled.

"If you hadn't noticed, what with me washing your things by hand outside, but I don't have running water. Your father didn't think of that, when he built this place." She paused, giving him a queer look, half-shy, half-accusing, as if she wanted to ask him something but couldn't work up the nerve.

He sighed, exasperated. "Then how do you clean yourself? How am _I_ to clean myself?"

She smiled at him, perhaps a little too sweetly.

"Why, the same why I clean the clothes and the dishes, Morgenstern. In a tub. Outside."

He looked startled, his dark eyes wide. "What do you do when it rains?" he asked before he could censor himself.

"The same thing I do when it snows. I bring the tub inside and am very, very careful."

Arella shrugged and crooked a finger at him. "Come on; I'll heat up a bath for you."

~*~

Arella had set up the bath, and Jonathon was relieved to find, that it at the very least had curtains, to keep away prying eyes. Casting one last suspicious look over his shoulder, he lowered himself slowly into the steaming water. The scent of lavender overwhelmed him, lavender and something else—whatever it was, he decided, dropping down so the water met his chin, was lovely. He had never felt so…pampered. He wasn't sure how he felt about that—this…pampering.

Forcing himself to focus and ignore the sweet-scented haze washing over him, Jonathon reached down to retrieve the soap outside the tub. Of course it too smelled so very feminine, but he was able to place the other scent finally, as he rubbed the lather over his skin. Vanilla. He was going to smell like a dessert when he was done. He knew how he felt about that—mildly disgusted. At least, he contented himself, he would no longer smell of mud, sweat and blood. Normally he not only could stomach the stench of blood, but rather enjoyed it—that is, when it wasn't his.

The mixed perfumes rose in the steam, lulling him, relaxing him. His eyes drooped; his body, so very sore, relaxing in the hot, fragrant water. With a soft sigh, he leaned back, allowing himself the luxury of dozing for a moment. He needed a moment of rest; his fever, he felt, was returning.

~*~

He awoke to the loud noise of a splash and sloshing of water, and to choking. Something grabbed him and heaved him up, shoving him half-over the rim of the tub. A few well-placed slaps on his back and he was breathing again, coughing, sputtering out the water he had swallowed and breathed in. He must have fallen asleep, then sunken into the water. His eyes blinked, trying to see past the water streaming from his white hair down his face. Arella was beside him, in the tub, her clothing soaked, her expression at once a mask of fury and intense concern. He stared at her, gathering his wits as she sat back, shoving a shaking hand through her lemony hair.

"Damn you," she said, breathless. "Don't have me save you, go through all that effort, just to have you drown in my damn tub."

Her eyes, he noticed, were too wide; her face too pale. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

Jonathon laughed shakily, which sent him into another fit of coughing so violent, he vomited the water he had swallowed. The taste of bitter lavender and sweet vanilla overwhelmed him, had his head spinning. He slumped forward, only to meet Arella's waiting arms. He heard her curse heartily, so heartily it almost pleased him, to hear the profane come out of such pretty, angelic lips.

"Did you know," he half-gasped, bordering on delirious, "that your name—it means Angel?"

"Yes," she said tersely, hoisting him up and struggling beneath his weight as she helped him stand. "And you can blame your father for that one as well."

"Are you my sister?" he asked, his head swimming as he hung upon her, unable to stand, his limbs trembling.

She looked pale at the thought. Her jaw clenched and she met his blurry eye. "If I said yes, what would you think? What would you do?"

"Kiss you," he said with a fevered laugh, "it only seems to make sense. I've kissed the other one, why not you too?"

"Come anywhere near me with those lips and I swear to the Angel, I will remove them from your person. Come on, lift your leg over the edge, I can't do _that_ for you."

Together, they managed to make it over the tub and up the stairs back into the cabin. Instead of trying to get him to the top floor, Arella helped Jonathon to the bed she had been using, tucked him in. She had, rather blushingly refused to meet his eye until his body was fully covered.

"You keep stealing my bed," she muttered to herself, putting a towel beneath his head so he wouldn't dampen the pillow.

He chuckled again, his body shivering from a fever. He closed his eyes and when he felt her weight lift off of the bed, his good hand reached out and snaked around her wrist, stopping her. His eyes, black and glittering as onyx, rested hazily on her face, still a little scarlet from having to, by necessity, deal with him in the nude.

"Tell me the truth, Arella," he said slowly, his lips feeling a little thick, "Are you my sister?"

She stared at him a beat too long, then looked away. She tugged her hand free from his slippery grasp and shook her head once.

"No. No, but sometimes I almost wish I was."

He stared at her image as it began to splinter, to become hazy. Jonathon watched her standing there, regarding him just as intently, for as long as he was able. But sleep soon overtook him, and he fell into a cool and lonesome pool of pitch.

* * *

**A/N**: If there's anything you'd like specifically to see in this little fanfic, just leave a comment with your idea/request. Also, if you have any constructive criticism, feel free to leave it. I'd love to hear from you, even if it's just "enjoyed this".

**- QS**


	5. When the Day Met the Night

**Chapter Five**

When the Day Met the Night

That night, Jonathon dreamed of a warm orange sun and cool, sweet grass. He was lying on a cotton blanket, the sunbeams heating his limbs even as a spring breeze caressed them. His mind was hazy, and his eyes did not want to open to examine his surroundings. He could hear, just a ways away, the sounds of the ocean crashing upon the surf ever so gently. Though he was motionless, he felt as if he were being rocked in soothing arms. That was when he became aware that he was not alone. A body, warm and ever so soft, was lying beside him, pressed against his side. When he concentrated, he could feel the weight of a leg, long and lean, resting idly atop his own. This discovery, however, did not upset him. It felt natural, to be beside this person. He stretched his arms overhead, and wiggled his fingers, feeling the blades of grass tickle his skin. Ten. He stopped, his body rigid. Ten fingers.

He sat bolt upright, gazing down at his body wildly. His hands were whole, perfect and what he could see of his skin was covered in glowing golden runes that swirled and danced like sunlight. Arella, clearly barely waking herself, looked up at him with soft, sleepy eyes. She smiled and stretched out her arms to him, her body, clad in a linen skirt and matching top that hugged her breasts and bared her midriff, arched as she awoke. Her skin too was covered in the misty sunlit runes.

'Are you well, Jonathon?' she asked, her voice a soft purr as she propped herself up when he did not enter her embrace, but gazed at her in confusion. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

'Where are we?' he demanded, looking about. It was a meadow with wild flowers of purple and white, some shining like stars, and tall trees surrounding their little haven like silent sentinels watching over the two. He could hear the water still, and decided a lake or even the ocean must be near.

Arella laughed, as if this were a joke, and the sound struck him as oddly intimate. He jolted when she leaned against his torso, smiling with an odd light in her eye, one he would never have supposed to exist when gazing upon himself. He held his breath as her lips, so soft and warm, like rosebuds in the summer, brushed against the underside of his jaw. Her fingers ran across his chest, and though his shirt blocked their skin from touching, his body became alive like a jolt of electricity had gone through it.

'What are you doing?' his voice was breathy and terse. He was confused but not necessarily displeased. It had, after all, been quite sometime since he had a woman. His body could use the relief.

Arella laughed again, her arms twinning about his neck as she pressed herself against him. He could feel the delicious swell of her breasts as she leaned into him. 'What do you mean? Do I need to remind you? Is your memory so short as to have forgotten last night? The afternoon before? The night before that? And then the one before that, and that?'

When she slid into his lap, her legs straddling him, he could resist no longer. He flipped her over, enjoying the sound of her startled gasp, the brief flash of surprise. Not as good as fear, but it would do for the moment. His hands, trembling with their eagerness, fumbled as he reached for her top. The fabric made a satisfying ripping noise as he tore it from her body. She gazed at him with bright eyes, her breathing gone short and fast, making her chest rise and fall, sway seductively beneath his piercing gaze

'What's come over you?' she asked, her voice, a mere breath on the wind, filled with desire, drove him on. He growled but made no answer other than to give her skirt the same treatment as he had her shirt. Her body, looking like spun silk and cream in the bright light of the sun, was all he needed. He shrugged his pants half-down and then took her arms, holding them tightly, so tightly she cried out. Arella's body rose into his, and just as he had her legs around his waist, was slowly pushing his way inside her, deliciously slowly and gripped by her hot silken folds, he felt someone shake him.

Jonathon blinked bleary eyes at his attacker, still in the deep sleep of dreams, still hearing Arella's moan of pleasure. Arella's face materialized slowly before him, his eyesight returning. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she looked concerned as she stared down at him, still in her dressing gown.

"Oh, thank goodness," she said with a sigh, sitting down beside him on his bed. "What on earth were you dreaming about? It sounded like you were being attacked and groaning in pain." She rested a hand against his forehead, her touch cool to his feverish and sweaty skin. He glowered at her, she who had ruined probably the best dream he had had in such a long time. He smacked her hand away.

"I was only dreaming," he groaned, raking a hand through his hair to steady himself. Of course it had been a dream. She wouldn't look at him like that. Hadn't she said, he remembered somewhat distantly, that if he tried to kiss her she would cut off his lips? He relaxed against his pillows and smiled ruefully. "I was actually about to enjoy a conquest, if you must know."

Arella's cheeks, pale only moments before, turned a light shade of pink and she looked away hurriedly. "Oh," she said after a moment. "Sorry to have…interrupted." She stood, blinking in surprise as he grabbed her wrist to keep her.

"Arella," he said with determination. He would have the truth out of her, damn it, and he would have it _then_. "Why are you being so kind to me?"

She shifted on her feet, not meeting his gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the question. She sat down again and shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

"I don't know, Jonathon. I shouldn't. I should hate you just like I hate your father." She raised her chin, meeting his gaze at last. "I know what you are. I know what your father did to you, when you were still inside of your mother. I should hate what you've become, fear you." She looked lost, confused and suddenly so very young. "I _should_," she repeated again. "I should but I don't."

Jonathon half-sat up, using his elbows as props, and frowned at her. A darkness with was never far filled his chest, made his heart squeeze and little needle shards fill his blood as it pumped through his body. He did not like talking about, or hearing, his history. He scowled.

"He did it to make me stronger," he said defensively, "And it did. No one is stronger than I am, no one."

Arella gave him a cool look. "Is that why your hand is missing? Because no one is stronger than you?"

He looked like he'd been slapped twice, the breath knocked out of him. Arella stood and walked the short distance to the kitchen, to put a kettle on the stove.

"Look," she said, turning to face him. "It doesn't matter what you are. It matters what you do. It isn't fair that you weren't given a choice," as she spoke, her cheeks rose in color, her eyes burned with a fierce light as if she were speaking of something greater than just Jonathon. She turned, preparing a cup of tea. "You weren't even a baby yet! How could you defend yourself? It wasn't his right to take your life into his own hands and change it! It's inhumane. A-and—"

Suddenly he was there, beside her. He grabbed her shoulder, spun her around to face him, all the while caging her there against the counter, not letting her escape him or his stare.

"Arella. What did he do to you? What did my father do?"

Arella's jaw, firmly set until then, trembled slightly. Her eyes were too bright, too shining. She shook her head once, tried to speak and found her voice gone. She cleared her throat and tried again.

"I don't want to talk about it, Jonathon."

Jonathon took her chin firmly in one hand, forced her eyes up to meet his. "You speak of fairness, yet you know about my secret and I do not know yours. How is that fair?"

He could see her will wavering. She was weakening to him. Damn it, he would have her yet!

"Please," his voice softened, his eyes grew sad as they searched her own so sincerely. "Please, don't keep me in the dark, Arella."

That did it. Her will shattered and was replaced by his.

"I burned them," she whispered, her spine soft, limbs limp. Tears filled her blue eyes, one leaking down her cheek. "I burned the journals."

"But you read them first," he said, certain in the knowledge.

She nodded, sniffing, unable to look away from him. "They were so ugly. _He_ was so ugly, Jonathon. And he thought he was doing what was right for the world!" She gasped, trembling. Jonathon wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her close to support her, comfort her as she told him her secrets.

"But what did he do? What did he do to you?"

"He _made_ me," she said mournfully, tears now running freely down her cheeks.

Jonathon's eyes darkened. "So you _are_ my sister."

"Jonathon, no, don't be so stupid." Arella covered her face with her hands, unable to look at him any longer. "He made me but wasn't my father. My mother," her voice grew strained over the word, as if it choked her, "she was one of his followers. She would have done anything for him. Anything. She…he told her that he wanted to create a perfect child. One that could help their cause."

"You?" he asked, somehow keeping the surprise from his voice, keeping his tone gentle, understanding.

"No, no of course not." She shook her head, looking at him again with teary eyes. "There is no child. Not yet. He intended…" she trailed off, once more sounding strangled. "What he intended doesn't matter. He…used mundane technology," she said, half-scoffing. "I don't know _how_ he got his hands on the DNA but he did." She looked at him sadly, her lips trembling. "He implanted her with one of her eggs, f-fertilized b-by…"

She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. It was horrible! Ungodly and sacrilegious what Valentine had done in the name of experimentation. She was an abomination more than even Jonathon, and God should have aborted her in her very mother's womb.

"By an angel. Ithuriel."

Arella looked horrified as she turned large, haunted eyes to him. "You _knew_? All this time, you've _known_?"

"No," Jonathon's expression was dark, masked. "But what else could it be? I knew about Ithuriel. I didn't know where Father kept him, but I knew. But I don't understand. Clary and that bastard Jace, they have Angel blood. I don't understand what he would want with another angelic child when Jace failed so very miserably."

Arella shook her head, looking frustrated even as more tears ran down her cheeks. "He didn't want _me_, Jonathon. He couldn't have cared about me. Do you know how he raised me? All I ever remember is being prepared to one day meet _you_. He told me stories about you, stories that filled me with joy and made my heart break. He trained me to love you before I even knew what love was." She covered her face with her hands again, scratching at the skin as if to get it away from herself, as if being in her bones sickened her.

Jonathon's breathing quickened as he watched her. "He made you for me? To love me?"

She looked at him and there was only desperation in her face, a ghastly look of abject horror in her eyes. "Are you so thick? Can't you see what he wanted? When he told my mother he wanted a child that could turn the tide in their favor, he wasn't joking, Jonathon. He wasn't lying about _that_. It simply wasn't her child he wanted."

Something inside of Jonathon's mind clicked into place. He stared at Arella, more shocked than he ever had been. Very little surprised or startled Jonathon, but this had his head spinning.

"Our child," he said, his breath a gasp. "Demon, angel and human all in one."

Arella, sobbing now, nodded once. "Yes, Jonathon. Our child. Valentine wanted me to be impregnated by you so he could train the child, in hopes it would wipe out the Downworlders and save his cause. That's why he made me, Jonathon. So he could use us both to get what he wanted."

Jonathon stepped back, releasing Arella to sink to the floor, no strength left inside her to support her.

"Our child," Jonathon whispered again, his hand shaking. He had not been enough? Had his father known, from the very beginning, that he would fail? So Valentine had needed something more, something greater even than Jonathon? He turned blazing eyes to Arella, wanting nothing more than to kill her, then and there, and destroy any chance of her bearing fruit that could somehow be worth more than he was. His hand clenched into a fist of rage and he slammed it against the wall, leaving a dent in the wood. His arm fell limp to his side, his hand broken, blue and bleeding.

"Damn you," he whispered, unsure if he was talking to Arella, his father, or himself. "Damn you to Hell."

* * *

**AN:** So I thought I would just get straight to the point and not waste time beating about the bush. Of course, I'm sure many of you had at least figured out Arella's origins on your own (which was my hope), but hopefully at least that last bit was, at the very least, a small surprise. Let me know what you think. ~QS


	6. Prodigal

**Chapter Six**

Prodigal

It had taken every ounce of self control not to kill her on the spot; to keep his hand from reaching out and snapping her neck like a matchstick. His entire body had been on fire with the need to kill her, to put out that too-bright light in her blue eyes. His muscles had trembled with the restraint, even his groin had been alive at the thought. He wanted it too much. There was little he relished more than denying himself instant gratification. Hold out, he told himself. Make it last longer.

Besides. He had learned long ago that though there was a certain pleasure in killing in a moment of passion, there were always consequences—consequences that often would outweigh that momentary burst of feral joy. Anyway, watching Arella stand there, sobbing, her entire body trembling, was almost as sweet a delicacy as choking the life out of her pretty face. Gods, the way she was shaking…so weak, her skin so bright, so white—the _things_ he could do to that skin! The dream he had had just minutes ago came back in a rush of adrenaline. He could feel his body sliding into hers, her muscles contracting around him, drawing him further inside her, squeezing him—he could hear his name on her lips, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright—

Jonathon cut off that train of thought and cursed violently, stumbling from the house. His hand throbbed from where he had nearly smashed it against her wooden walls, but he welcomed the pain, used it as a tool to help him focus. He had to get away, had to clear his head, away from Arella. She clouded his mind, made him forget what he was, what he needed to do. It shook him, knowing that he could not decide which he wanted more: to screw the bitch, or kill her.

The further he stumbled from her cabin, the more easily he could think—but also the harder he found it to breathe. With every step, he felt each ache from every wound his body had suffered more keenly. His left hand, though it was long gone, he could feel cramping, burning. His vision was clouding with a red haze. He ran. Ran from Arella, but towards something, something he couldn't name. That sensation he felt as something died, the knowledge that he had stolen something precious from God: _life_. The knowledge that no Angel could stop him.

He ran until he came across a small farm. There was a boy, no more than six or seven years old, sitting in the sun, a toy fishing rod lying beside him. Jonathon slowed to a halt, breathing heavily, the pain in his ribs beyond compare, sweat pouring down his face. The boy looked up at him, his eyes so wide and innocent. So trusting. He had tawny hair, wild and a little too long. He looked like _him_, the pretender. Jace.

The red haze was back, and Jonathon couldn't see past it. It consumed his vision, consumed _him_.

When Jonathon came to, he was soaked in blood. Dark red blood that seeped into his skin, filled his nose with the scent of death and copper so thick he could taste the expired life of the nameless child. He looked down at the destruction he had wrought, a mess of just so much raw meat, no longer someone's son, someone's baby. With a shaking hand, he traced the name in dirt and blood and gore: JACE.

He couldn't take the time to admire his work. He could hear someone calling "Bryan" in the distance. Taking the life of something so innocent had filled him with a new vigor, a new energy. He had spat in God's face and God had remained silent, yet again. In a tumult of emotions he ran again, let his feet guide him. He was exulted and angry, so angry. Why? If there really was a God, why did He never stop him? Why did He let the innocent creatures He claimed to love suffer at his hand? The truth was there was no God, there was no goodness. Jonathon was more a god than the Creator. He had the power of life and death and used it, while the Other sat back and watched. Maybe not even that. Maybe He had turned His back on them all long ago.

Jonathon ran, little surprised of his destination. He collapsed on the porch, still covered in blood, now dried and flaking. His ribs were on fire, he couldn't breathe too deeply or the stabbing pain in his side was so sharp, he was sure it would puncture a lung. His vision was still tinged red at the periphery, his sight blurred through the fading blood lust. She was there, surrounded by a hazy golden glow, like a welcoming aura or halo. His sight fading as it was, he thought for a moment that the aura looked like wings spreading out and around them both, enfolding him in warmth and love, even as she fell to her knees beside him, cradling her head in his lap and whispering, over and over whispering…

"Oh, God Jonathon. What did you do? What did you do, Jonathon, what did you do?"

Nod claimed him, but even so, he could almost feel the warmth of her arms encircling him. He could almost feel the sweet healing warmth of her love. Almost.

Almost.

* * *

_**AN:**_ Forgive the brevity of this update, but I am working on the next chapter now and hope to publish it as well before the day is out.


	7. She

**Chapter Seven**

She

What was she thinking?

Arella gazed at Jonathon, sweating out his fever, tossing and moaning in the bed to which she had finally been able to drag him. She had drawn runes on his flesh and he was healing so much faster than a human would have unaided, yet there was something in him that resisted her stele whenever she held it to his skin. She sat beside him on the bed, picking up the utensil and laid it against the bare epidermis of his chest. She drew the first stroke of a healing rune and the line was pure, golden and shimmering. The beautiful color quickly faded into a sizzling black, almost bubbling on the skin as if it were toxic instead of healing. She finished the mark and looked away, to the stack of dishes that had piled up near the sink. He would half-awaken every so often, and each time she would shovel food and water down his throat. She had let things slide. Dishes had piled up, there was laundry to be done, and she hadn't bathed in God knew how long.

"He'll be fine for half an hour," Arella said to herself, forcing herself to stand, to walk away. She quickly traced another rune on his flesh, one for energy, hoping it would double the effect of the healing mark, and then slipped outside to start a fire. She heated the water and discarded her clothes, laying them in a neat pile beside the other used laundry. She then slipped into the bath and closed the curtains around her. She sank down into the steam, drinking deeply the scent of lavender and vanilla. To aid in relaxation, she had stirred in some chamomile as the water bubbled away, heating up. She slid beneath the surface of her bathtub, soaking her hair to prepare it for her homemade shampoo-lather.

It was good to get clean. Next, she would attack those dishes.

Jonathon awoke to thirst. He crawled from his bed, the freshly-drawn marks on his skin stinging more than marks should. He ignored that pain, testing his side as he took a deep breath. The sharpness was gone, but he was still sore and ached everywhere. The phantom pain where his hand should have been was worse. The nearly-healed wound on his wrist looked more raw than it had before, fresher. He tore his black gaze away from the stump and turned his eyes towards the kitchen. Water.

He stumbled out of bed and managed to pour himself a glass. He drank it slowly, to not overwhelm his system and give his body time to absorb the water. Where was Arella? It was odd but he couldn't _feel_ her in the house. An empty house had a very distinct feeling, and it left him anxious. Where was she? He made his way out onto the back veranda and paused, his eyes growing wide. He could just make out her silhouette in the tub. He swallowed. Her towel lied a few feet from the safety of her shower curtains, folded neatly on the bottom step of the stairs that led up to the porch. She clearly had not expected him to awaken, let alone to manage to get up. Energy was coursing through him, however, and even though he was in pain, he was quite awake.

There were three options available to him. He could go back inside and slide back into bed, collapse and sleep. Oblivion, however, though a welcome respite, was not what he wanted. He could sit down and wait for her to come out, hand her her towel mayhap, with a smirk. Or…

He stumbled out of his clothes, his fevered body responding to his commands in jerks and tugs. Jonathon managed to remove every last article and then hesitated only a moment. He marched over to the tub and gripped the shower curtains, then shoved them aside. Arella was sitting in the tub, her knees drawn to her chest, huddled against the far side. She jolted, staring at him in surprise. The color drained from her face then flooded back in a rush, her cheeks staining red.

"Jona—!"

He ignored her and stepped in beside her. He nearly slipped but used the curtain to steady himself. He slid down, resting against the opposite wall of the tub, his breathing irregular. He was still so tired, so weak, it had taken most of his energy to get that far. However, as he rested, the rune quickly filled him with a new vigor.

Jonathon stared at her almost darkly, defiantly, his jaw set. Was he…testing her? Arella couldn't tell. What on _earth_ was he thinking? She stared right back, feeling a twinge of annoyance—did he have to behave like such a child all the time? He acted outrageously to get a reaction from her, and she was sick of rewarding his bad behavior. If he was going to act like a two year old, then he would be treated as such.

Not lowering her legs, Arella picked up the bar of soap and tossed it to him.

"If you're going to barge in, you may as well get clean."

Jonathon's eyebrow twitched, and for the briefest of moments, he almost looked confused. Good. She had at least thrown him off his guard. Not the reaction he had been expecting, she supposed. His gaze traveled down to the bar of half-used soap, lying between them in the water. He reached out with his hand, his only hand, and tried to grab it. It slipped between his fingers, squirted towards her again. Arella kicked it back with her foot.

Jonathon scowled, reaching for the bar. Damn, slick thing! He slipped, then reached out with his free hand to grab hold of the railing only—only he didn't _have_ a free hand. His stubbed wrist skidded against the ceramic, leaving a small smear of blood, as he fell forward, cursing violently.

A cool hand reached out and steadied him, grabbing him by the shoulder. Jonathon's head snapped up, and he was about to curse her, but the words died on his lips. Arella was on her hands and knees, a look of abject compassion on her face, her eyes soft, caring. He swallowed and looked down, unable to meet her eyes. He stared instead at his reflection in the water. His eyes, black as ever, looked hollow. His skin was wan, pale and sallow. Gods, he wasn't even eighteen yet, when had he begun to look so…old? He was still handsome, of course he was, but he looked so…_tired_.

Something smooth and silky ran down the skin of his back, a slow, lingering caress. Jonathon's head snapped up and his face was pressed into Arella's bare side. Her skin was like satin, warm from the sudsy water, and oddly smooth. She lathered her hands and ran her palms across his skin, soaping it.

"Sit back you big baby," she said through gritted teeth. "And keep your hands to yourself."

Jonathon slid back, eyeing her as she moved forward, gingerly washing his skin. He was coated in a sheen of sweat built up from fevered-sleep, but Arella soon took care of that. As she scrubbed at his flesh, her breasts, not too large, not too small, swung back and forth, brushed against his shoulder, then his leg. Her skin was so soft…

He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, his desire growing more evident with each passing moment. Did she have to be such a temptation? So innocent and pure? Something so fragile, so…breakable?

As she was running her fingers through his hair, massaging in the conditioner, he couldn't resist. Her face was so close to his, her arms already wrapped about him as she worked the cream in. He didn't think about it, not really, he just acted. He took a breath and then was kissing her, his good arm sliding around her waist. She made a stifled noise of surprise, her entire body stiffening instantly. That only drove him on. He pulled her down, tugged her until she spilled into his lap, pressed tight against his groin as his mouth fought against hers.

He knew she would pull away. Knew it was just a moment he had before she would jerk back. And then what? Would he force her? Bend her over the side of the tub and take her against her will? He doubted he had the strength, not right then.

But she didn't. She was stiff as his mouth worked on hers, lips prying her own open against their will and then…then she was melting into him, kissing him back with a hunger that had _him_ startled. Her fingers were in his hair, tugging on the silken strands. Her lips parted to him, teased him inside of her even as her hips rocked slowly, tentatively against his. Jonathon's fingers bit into the flesh of her bottom, drawing her closer. So close, so very close. His erection pushed at her flesh, his hand guided her down, angled her—then with a single upward thrust he was inside of her. It was brutal—he was large, and it was clearly her first time, yet she was ready for him. She broke the kiss, flinging her head backwards as she cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain that drove him on until he was thrusting into her with a wild ravenousness he hadn't known even in his greatest moment of feral passion.

He wasn't gentle, yet when his fingers dug into her skin, Arella only arched further towards him. When his teeth grazed her breast, bit down so hard she nearly bled, she only whimpered softly and cradled his head against her. And she came. He wasn't expecting that. She screamed, her back arching, body bucking as her hands tried to hold onto him, tried to find a grip against the slickness of his skin. It was his name, long, drawn out, a mangled plea of desire and satisfaction. There was a bit of blood on her lip, from where he had bitten her too hard. The sight of that crimson stain, the feel of her body contracting involuntarily around him, milking him, the echo of her voice screaming for _him_—he couldn't hold out. With one last, hard stroke, he buried himself inside of her and released his seed. Women before had always told him it burned, his seed—that is, they did when he bothered to ask them. Burned like hell fire, they said.

Arella simply squirmed, her body still writhing against his, trembling with bursts of ecstasy as little aftershocks rolled through her again and again. Her breath was hot against his chest, her forehead tucked against the hollow of his throat. Her arms were around him, and to his surprise, he was still clutching to her just as tightly.

When she finally did begin to separate herself from him, she hissed in pain. There was blood, her blood, in his lap, staining the water a delicious rust color. Her wince, the sound of her sharp intake of breath and the sight of the blood had him growing hard again. He didn't let her go. It had been such a long time. He wasn't through with her yet. The red haze was back and his wrist, the broken stub, was burning, burning so brightly, so hot—he had to have her again.

They managed to make it to the veranda. He had half-carried her, half-stumbled with her to the wooden steps where they finished, exhausted, each. More blood, more wounds on her pristine white flesh—yet Jonathon was so dizzy, his head was spinning, his body was burning and the pain in his wrist was all-encompassing. Arella lied on top of him for long minutes, catching her breath, trying not to move too much for the soreness in her body, before she realized something was wrong. Jonathon was sweating but this much was inordinate. And his eyes, were they rolling?

Arella whispered a soft curse and extracted herself from Jonathon with only a few winces, though her eyes did water at the pain. She was so _sore_—! How could it have felt so, _so_ good then, but hurt so much now? Even biting her lip hurt her! But she could think about that later. Now, she needed to tend to Jonathon. As always, it seemed. She helped him stand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Together, they managed to get inside. She got him back into her bed, but when she tried to get up to grab her stele (for them _both_), he clung to her, nearly screaming for her to stay. With wide, surprised eyes, she lied down beside him, letting him hold her even as his body shook and sweated from fever.

She ran her fingers through his hair, brushing it back. Tears filled her eyes as she watched him sleep it off, work through whatever sickness was plaguing him. His wrist was so raw looking, lumpy and glistening like so much raw meat. It had been almost healed just hours before! What was going on? Tears filled her eyes as she brushed her knuckles tenderly against his cheek.

"Oh, Jonathon. What am I going to do? I'm supposed to hate you, I…"

She shook her head and kissed him softly, her lips bruised but still sweet.

"What am I going to do?"

* * *

_**AN**_: Hopefully that wasn't _too_ graphic for you. And don't worry, things will be picking up shortly. ~ QS.


	8. Someone to Save You

**Chapter Eight**

Someone to Save You

Four days passed.

Arella was nearly frantic. Jonathon would awaken often enough to eat, to refresh himself; sometimes he would take her. She had no idea how he summoned the energy, but he did. She would try to fight him off, try to wrestle him back into bed, but each time he kissed her, something inside of her snapped and took over. She couldn't resist him and that knowledge drove her half-mad. She had more self-control than that! And yet…yet she couldn't _help_ it. It was almost as if she would enter a trance, unable to think past _his_ undeniable need.

Every time, every single time, his fever got worse. His wrist, too. Bones were starting to protrude from the stub; fleshy, bloody bones. And the skin seemed to be growing at a rapid rate, almost…almost as if his body were _growing a new hand_.

Arella shuddered, gripping the rim of the sink with both her hands. It wasn't possible, not even with marks, to re-grow a limb, yet Jonathon seemed to be doing just that. And it wasn't lost on her that it seemed to happen only after they made love.

Made love.

She snorted, picking up the kettle of steaming water to pour more onto the dishes, rinsing the suds off. It certainly _wasn't_ making love. She doubted Jonathon was capable of something so sweet, so tender. He was rough with her, always rough, yet she didn't mind. She knew she would be whatever it was that he needed her to be. It was in her nature, to become that which others required.

Valentine had been banking on it. What would he think, if he knew that despite knowing what his plan was—and despising it—Arella had fallen into his trap anyway? Had bedded Jonathon? Would he laugh? Would he lament not being there to take charge of the results?

Not that there _would_ be results. Arella was almost certain Jonathon would kill her when he was well enough. It was in his nature to kill. Yet…yet she stayed. She saw to his well-being. Why? Why did she? What did she owe him?

As much as she hated it, she knew the answer.

"But how can you love a monster?" she whispered to herself, her eyes blurring with tears. Arella hung her head, a single tear running down the soft curve of her cheek. "Why did you make Love so fickle, God? Why?"

She shuddered once, regaining control of her wayward emotions. It would not do to weep. It might wake Jonathon, and with how long it had been since he had had her, she was relatively certain when he rose next it would be to take her.

She finished the dishes, hanging up the towel she used to dry them and proceeded to empty the sink of the now-dingy water. She sat on the back porch then, resting. She was so tired. She closed her eyes, leaning back against the pillowed rocker. The air was crisp. Autumn had come. She was going to need to take the tub inside now, when she needed to bathe.

She watched the sway of the trees in the fall wind through half-lidded eyes.

She was so tired. So tired…

…

Jonathon woke to a dim sort of consciousness to which he was growing accustomed. He moved with mechanical jerks, forcing himself to sit up. His stomach rumbled. When was the last time he had eaten?

"Arella?" his voice was groggy, croaking and parched. He looked down at his stubbed wrist, noticing she had wrapped it in some sort of linen to stymie the bleeding. He grunted softly and flung his legs over the side of the bed to stand. His muscles trembled, but he remained on his feet.

"Arella," he called again, walking towards the stairs. A quick survey of the open downstairs let him know she wasn't there. He took each stair slowly, his progress painful but sure. Steady. He shouldered the door at the top open.

"Arella?"

Silence met him. He was alone. Panic flared in his chest. Had she _left_ him? Grown smart and fled while she could? No, no if she had been planning on fleeing, she would have done so long ago.

He cursed and stumbled back down the stairs, taking them two at a time now. Had something happened to her? If something had, what would he do? It wasn't because he _cared_, he thought with a snarl as he tripped down the last step and landed hard on his knees. Damn her, if she got hurt! If something happened to her, didn't she understand that she was _his_ now? Damage to herself was therefore damage to _him_ and would not go unpunished.

He got slowly to his feet and aimed for the door out back. Why wasn't she answering him?

"Arella!"

…

She awoke to someone shaking her violently. Arella's eyes fluttered open abruptly and she stared, nearly nose to nose, at Jonathon. His cheeks were enflamed, his eyes bright and wild as he clutched her with his good hand, his nails biting into her skin until she felt blood trickle down her arm.

"You _stupid idiot_," he spat, shoving her back hard against the chair. Her head hit the wood and she winced, biting her lip from pain.

"Jonathon!" she gasped, grabbing his wrist to pry his hand off of her. "Get off!"

"_No_," he said through gritted teeth. "How _dare_ you make me worry about you! What were you doing? Why are you sleeping outside? What's _wrong_ with you?"

Arella finally wrestled him off and stood, breathing heavily as she took a step back.

"I didn't _intend_ to sleep out here. Why would I? I'm simply exhausted from caring from you, from doing all this extra house work and not allowing myself to sleep for more than an hour at a time so I can _check_ on you to make sure you're still breathing!"

"Well _stop_!" Jonathon glowered at her, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her closer. She stumbled forward, trying to resist him but unable. Even weakened, he was so much stronger than she.

"I don't need you to baby me. I'll live while you sleep, untended. You fucking idiot, I'm not going to die simply because you allow yourself to _rest_!"

Arella's eyes watered at the rebuff. She blinked quickly and tugged on her hand to no avail. He had her, claws dug in.

"I—"

"No, shut up, I don't care." Jonathon pulled her, turning back to the cabin, dragged her inside. "I'm hungry."

Arella ground her teeth together, trying not to scream. Of course. He wasn't worried about her safety, only about the availability of his next meal. She yanked and managed to free her hand. Rubbing her wrist, she motioned towards the bed.

"Well go lie down then! I'll get you your food and clean your dishes and change your sheets and wash your clothes and wrap your wounds!"

Jonathon gave her a cold look down his nose. "Good."

Her jaw nearly dropped as he sauntered back to the bed and collapsed upon it. He straightened the pillows and used them as a prop to sit up, waiting for his food.

Arella turned on her heel and hastily threw something together, anger a dull glow in the pit of her stomach. She assembled a sandwich for him and nearly dropped the thing on his lap. When she turned to leave, he caught her hand again.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, annoyed. With a tug, Jonathon pulled her down and held her beside him.

Arella thrashed against the confines of his arm, but even her resistance was muted by her desire not to injure him.

"To do the damn dishes, let me go!"

"You will not. You will wait right here and _rest_ while I eat."

That being said, he released her and picked up his meal, clearly expecting her to obey him. Her mouth opened to protest, but no words came. She snapped her jaw shut, eyes stunned and sat back in silent surprise.

One corner of Jonathon's lips quirked as he swallowed the bite of sandwich he had taken.

"Good. I like it when you're too shocked to speak. The quiet is refreshing."

That did it.

Her temper flared, and an anger unlike anything she had ever known possessed her.

"You _stupid git—_" Arella said, seething as she tried to climb over him, to get up and leave, leave him to his own devices—leave him to fix his own damn food, make his own bed and clean up after _himself_!

Jonathon barked out a laugh and tossed the plate aside, ignoring the shatter of ceramic as the dish broke on the wood floor. He grabbed her as she tried to squirm over him and flipped her onto her back, pinning her into the bed with a knee. He was grinning fiercely, that dark light back in his eye as he stared at her. She swallowed, eyes going wide as she tried to fight in earnest now. She should have guessed this was coming. Her fighting, however, only made his grin widen, made his grip tighter until she was sure she felt a bruise blossoming on her wrist.

"Jonathon! Let me up!"

"No," he breathed, leaning down to nip the skin of her neck. Gods, what was it about her? Something about the way her skin smelled, or the rebellious shadows in her otherwise so innocent eyes—_something_ that made him unable to _not_ have her. Part of him knew it was because he wanted to see how far he could push her before she broke, but another part of him was bewildered. Never, _never_, before had he wanted someone so much. It was…unsettling.

"Jonathon," she half-gasped, half-pleaded as his mouth began to suck on the skin over her pulse, pulling it roughly into his mouth, biting down until he left a mark. Her body, traitor that it was, rose upwards. Her hips rocked, seeking his. She rubbed against him through the cloth of his pants, one leg hooking over his waist to draw him closer. He was so hard already, so ready for her. Her body became pliant beneath him, squirming and rocking at just the right time.

She had lost before she had even begun to fight. The soft growls he made in the back of his throat as he sucked and bit her flesh, as he tore the clothing from her, only made her body all the more eager for his intrusion.

She couldn't resist. How could she have thought she was strong enough?

…

When he was done, Arella pushed herself up on shaking arms, trying to climb out of the bed to begin cleaning up the broken plate. God—she was so sore! But his arm stopped her, caged her down against him. Panic flared in her breast for a moment. Oh, God, no, not again! Surely he was too tired? He _needed_ to rest—!

"Stay," he whispered gruffly, clutching her closer. His eyes didn't open, and he was obviously falling asleep again.

"But the mess…" she trailed off, glancing over at the broken china her mother had brought home.

"It will wait. I said stay."

Arella swallowed but lied down, nestling against him. Her eyes were wide, unsure what to do as he drifted off. His face was creased in pain, and she was certain it was because of the stub of his wrist. He rolled over and gave her his back. Something must have been happening to it, for it was bleeding through the linen again. He groaned softly, hurting, but did not awaken. She winced, and tentatively rolled against him. He was so warm. He turned, almost instinctively, and gripped her close, one leg draping over her side. She grew stiff for a moment, but slowly relaxed against the heat of his fevered body.

It was a long time before she was able to sleep. When she finally did, she dreamed of laughter, not dark, not sinister—warm laughter, full of life and joy. What Jonathon's might have sounded like, if only circumstances had been different.

If only.


	9. Sunshine

**Chapter Nine**

Sunshine

It hadn't taken too long for the news to reach them. There had been a body, a little boy, almost still a baby—and _blood_, so much _blood_. Then a name, written in blood and earth, beside the mangled remains. She couldn't see it clearly, but the letters J, A, and E stood out. That name meant something, but Arella didn't know what. She couldn't see, couldn't tell.

There was a noise at the door, a loud shattering as the wood splintered into fragments. Then she was outside, without knowing how she got there. Darkness had descended like a blanket around her home. There was smoke, something was burning, she could smell it, and yelling—so much yelling. Jonathan. She had to find Jonathan.

The thought of him had her moving, and suddenly she was out back. Two figures—one, burning gold like the glory of God personified, all bright light and sharp, clear movements. And then—yes, that blur of shadow and smoke and smell of sulfur, there was Jonathan. His hand had somehow gone from half-formed to fully healed, was the only bright spot on his body otherwise cloaked in shadow manifested. He was smiling, grinning with a dark light, his eyes like two burning black stars, sucking in light and everything around them, blackholes greedy for that which lived—and then the Golden One, the one of light and beauty, the One who clearly carried the mark of the Angel written upon his skin like Holy Scripture—he was there, a blade, shining with the light of the Angel, the light of God, coming down upon the shadow that was Jonathan like divine retribution.

No, no, _no_, _no_—**NO**!

Then she was there, standing between them. The blade swung, and then she was being held by Jonathan, a look of confusion so profound on his face that it was almost comical and then singing so sweet she almost couldn't stand it, and a comfortable heat sweeping over her like sunshine and then Jonathan's mouth was on hers and she was pouring that sunshine inside of _him_ and then—

She was forced awake by a hard shake. Jonathan's face was hovering over hers, and if she didn't know better, she might have said he looked concerned. She blinked at him and realized there were tears in her eyes, coursing down her cheeks. She sucked in a shuddering breath, confusion blanketing her mind. What had she been dreaming of? She could still feel sunlight, like…sunlight like a mother's love, surrounding her, engulfing her.

Jonathan stared down at Arella, wanting to ask her what had made her scream in her dreams, but the words died on his lips. There was something in her eyes, some golden light that was outshining the blue, like the sun had fallen from the sky and taken up residence in her irises. He stroked her cheek with his malformed-but-growing-every-day-more-and-more-like-a hand. One of the tears, silver and pure, ran onto his skin and stung, leaving behind a red welt on the fresh, pink skin that had begun to form. The skin rippled and he felt an intense stinging he now associated with growth in his bones. He hissed in pain as one finger, his pinky, shot outwards and grew at a remarkable rate. Gods but it burned—!

"Jonathan."

His name was a whisper, soft and full of something he couldn't place—some emotion that had eluded him his entire life. It made him feel awkward, thrilled and afraid all at once. Afraid. He was afraid. The thought tightened his gut more surely than the searing pain in his hand did.

But then his eyes landed on Arella's again and something passed through him. Sunlight. He could smell it, could feel, filling the room and searing straight through him. Her hands reached for him, clasped through his hair and drew his mouth down to hers. She had never, not once, reached for him. Not first. She had accepted him as he pushed himself onto her, but she had yet to be the one to make the first contact. It was heady, like some strong, sweet wine that cloyed even after one had swallowed the last drop.

Gods, even her mouth _tasted_ like sunlight. Her skin was so soft, so warm and welcoming. He fell into her and lost himself. It was gentle this time, like it had never been before. His mouth on hers was like a caress, not a demand. His hand—no, _hands_—on her body were a plea, a question, not insisting, not claiming anything. When he moved inside of her, rocking so gently together, it was like he had lost himself, like he had lost the difference between their two bodies—like they had no bodies at all, there was only that warm sunlight streaming inside of them both, one body, one thought, one breath. Something was moving through him, something soft and small, growing larger by the second, leaving his insides feeling…feeling like they had been gently washed in fresh rainfall. Yet even so, the pervading sense of sunlight persisted. Clean. He felt…clean.

When they were finished, they lay together trembling, their bodies connected. Arella shivered one last time, her body rolling as one final aftershock rocked her, and then the pain hit him like a volcanic eruption. Screaming, he wrenched himself away from their joined forms, and fell onto the floor on his back. The sunlight was still there, but it had condensed on his hand—his wounded, growing hand. It glowed white hot, burned so brightly that he couldn't even look at it. He screamed, the sound torn out of him against his will. His back arched, body bucked beneath the agony of the fiery heat.

Arella, stunned, lied still for a moment, her normally blue eyes still glowing gold, wide and frozen. Then she was in movement, rolling off of the bed and kneeling beside Jonathan as he wretched in pain. His hand—his poor, malforming hand—was glowing with the light of the sun. Without knowing why, or how she was able to stand it, she grabbed his hand in both of her own and bent over it. She drew it up against her stomach and held it there, feeling the heat like little more than a warm glow against her flesh.

Sweating profusely, Jonathan watched was Arella took his hand against her and doubled over it, holding it so tightly against herself. It burned, it throbbed, he could feel the bones, the muscles, the skin all bending, stretching and growing at an alarming rate but the pain—the pain was becoming dull, a burn still, but one a few days old instead of scorching with freshness. He watched her, hissing at the pain, until she closed her eyes and let out a single note of song. That was all she did. She sang out a pitch, something between the vowels a, e, and o, but none at the same time, high and clear and beautiful. The note pierced him as the sunlight had before, but where the sun had burned, the note soothed. It lulled him until he was panting from exertion but not agony—no longer feeling anything but a faint warmth surrounding him, supporting him and buoying him upwards, as if floating in a lake of warm water.

They were both glowing with runes—marks for healing, peace, birth and rebirth and death. They glowed with an impossible golden light. That light touched his skin, made his own marks glow golden for a few fleeting seconds, before simmering into the normal black lines to which he was accustomed. But hers—they glowed gold still.

Hours or days later, he couldn't tell, when the glowing had long since stopped and the pain had receded to little more than an arthritic ache in his bones, Arella sat back slowly. She unfurled from around his hand slowly, like a flower blooming. Instead of revealing a small bud of pollen, ripe and waiting, she revealed his hand, pink, slender and absolutely perfect.

The corners of Arella's mouth lifted, forming a mystified half-smile. She traced the line down his palm, the longest one, running her finger around the base of his thumb. She stroked his lifeline again and then looked up, her half-smile a fully-fledged grin. Their eyes met and she froze, the smile on her face no longer joyful but melting in an alarmed O. One of her hands flew to cover her mouth, the other clung tightly to his newly formed hand.

"What is it?" he asked, bewildered. He couldn't take it all in, it was too much. His hand, the feeling of being somehow clean inside his own skin, as if that sun he had felt had been soap and had scoured him until not even a single toxin remained—it was all too much. So much that it didn't register, it hadn't fazed him yet. Instead of being overwhelmed by his hand, his curiosity was piqued at what had caused the change in Arella from alive with wonder and joy, to frozen in surprise and…fear.

"Your eyes." Her voice was a soft whisper, barely audible in the buzz of energy still lingering in the room. "Your eyes Jonathan."

"What about them?" he asked, his patience slipping.

"They're…_green_."

* * *

**A/N:** Good G-d, please do forgive that long hiatus. I'm back now, with several chapters written, just waiting on proofing so I won't have any more silly typos. Graduating from college threw me for a loop. There's no other excuse I can offer, but know that I am back and the end is nigh. Oh, yes, an imaginary high-five to anyone who can guess the bands to all the song titles I've been using as chapter names.


	10. Somewhere Only We Know

**Chapter Ten**

Somewhere Only We Know

There was one mirror in the entire cabin. One small, tarnished mirror that hung on the wall of Arella's bedroom upstairs. It was the size of both his palms, held together, and the shape of an oval. His hands were pressed against the wall, had been planted that way for at least an hour. Jonathan was staring into the mirror, his face pushed up close, close enough to get both of his eyes reflected back to him.

Green. His eyes were green. Not black. Green. The color that came upon nature, just between the rains of spring and the overwhelming heat of summer. Not quite as spring as Clarissa's, more summer. Like Jocelyn's. Like his mother's. His mother's green eyes. They stared back at him, the perfect replica of the eyes he had gazed at a few times when he was young, in a photo album his father hadn't realized that Jonathan had found. He had outgrown looking at the woman who hadn't wanted him quickly. Still, he could recall the exact shade of her eyes in an instant.

What. Had. Happened.

He felt clean inside. His eyes, they were green. He had never felt more fresh, more new.

He felt weak.

The door behind him cracked and opened. Hesitantly, Arella poked her head in, her eyes large and wary.

"Jonathan, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going out for an hour or so."

He tensed, his eyes, clear and green and probably the most beautiful color she had ever seen, locked onto her form in the mirror.

"Where are you going?" he asked in a voice low and deadly in its calm.

"There's a farm close by. I go there to buy food and the few things I've needed over the years. Before Mother died, she went."

"A farm," he repeated softly, his gaze gone hazy with memory. The cords of muscle in his arms tightened. "Bryan."

A look of curiosity appeared on Arella's face. "Yes, they have a son named Bryan. How did you know, Jonathan?"

Jonathan just shook his head. His eyes closed, and he looked suddenly years older, exhausted by cares Arella could only guess at. Her throat constricted and she didn't press the subject. When she moved to come into the room, needing to comfort him, he flinched, his eyes still shut.

"Don't," he said, his voice harsh in the echoing silence. "Just…don't."

Arella froze and swallowed. Her eyes, blue again, no longer glowing with that summer sun, were wide. She nodded and stepped back. Casting him one last longing, worried look, she retreated. She closed the door quietly and stepped down the stairs on equally careful feet.

She walked the familiar path to the Golightly farm. The air was crisp with the growing autumn, but the sky above was clear and a welcome blue. The trees were just beginning to turn, others still clinging to their evergreen leaves. It should have been beautiful to her. But the closer she got to the farm, the greater the sense of urgency she felt. Something was wrong. She could feel it in the very air, a chord of sorrow in an otherwise peaceful melody.

She had no idea when she began to run, but she was out of breath when she reached the veranda of the Golightly home. When James answered the door, Arella's hand flew to her throat. He was wearing the stark white of mourning.

"Arella," he said softly. He was explaining that they didn't have much for her right now. They had shut down. Yasmine hadn't gotten out of bed since they had found him—since they had found the body. Their little boy, their little Bryan—murdered. He had thought it had been an animal, or somehow a rogue demon had stumbled across him. He had thought so, until he had seen the name scrawled in blood—his own boy's blood. Jace. There was an investigation going on—The Clave had members everywhere, scouring their land for clues.

Arella didn't wait to hear the rest. Pale and trembling, she spoke of her grief at their loss, tears coursing down her cheeks. Then she was racing away, flying back down the path she had just trod. The basket she had been holding for her goods, along with her money to purchase them, were dropped without thought on the steps of the porch. Then she was only a spot of color along the dirt road, her hair a golden stream behind her.

If only she had known. James' mourning eyes weren't the only ones watching as she ran. Ran as if she were running for her life. Or, perhaps, someone else's. Back, back to the place only she and Valentine had known of—and Valentine's tormented son. His demonic, murdering son.

The only man she had ever really loved.


	11. Goodbye, Apathy

**Chapter Eleven**

Goodbye, Apathy

Arella burst into the cabin to find Jonathan lounging idly in her mother's chair. He was sitting, one leg draped over the arm rest, busy on gouging out slivers of wood with his thumbnail. His _new_ thumbnail. The one she had given him, she was certain of that. It was already bloody from where a splinter had gouged beneath the nail bed. He had ignored it and continued to pick at the wood, driving the sliver further and further into his skin.

She stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. Her cheeks were red, her eyes bright and her hair was tangled.

She had never looked more beautiful.

She had never looked more enraged.

"What did you do!" she nearly screeched, lunging for him where he sat, sat as if he had not a single care in the world. His eyes, so green now, met hers with a ferocity that almost made her stumble. Almost.

He stood in a movement too fast to see and caught her when she would have tackled him to the floor. He grabbed her wrists when she tried to pound on his chest, her eyes gone wild, rolling in her face.

"WHY!" she screamed, when there was nothing else for her to do. She couldn't fight him, she didn't have his strength. Valentine had taught her _that_ much, over the years. She was weak and soft and fragile, helpless against someone like Jonathan. She twisted but still he held fast. She sank to her knees, the tears starting to flow again. "Why," she repeated, the sound a hollow sob. "Why?"

He squatted beside her, still clutching harshly to her wrists. She hung her head and sobbed. Bryan, a little boy with tawny hair and an open, smiling face. Gone. Forever. And for what? For what?

"Because I had to," he said simply, not denying it. His voice was empty, detatched. No anger, no sorrow or pride or remorse. He was stating a fact, as if he were telling her about the weather, or the color of the sky. Arella looked at him, her tears making her eyes seem so bright.

"You mean that, don't you? You really had to do it. It…it fed you, in some way."

He nodded once, his expression thoughtful. His eyes, so very green, finally met her own.

"I don't have to anymore." With their joined hands, he motioned to his eyes. "I think, whatever you did…I don't have to." When her face brightened, a spark of hope lighting her countenance, he continued, "That doesn't mean I won't do it again, Arella. I am who I am. But it means that I don't _have_ to."

Arella shook her head, her hair a golden halo surrounding her face. "I'll stay with you, Jonathan. I won't ever leave your side. We'll fight it, we'll fight it together. I can heal you. That's why God let it happen. That's why God didn't kill me, in my mother's womb. That's why I'm here. I can heal you. I can heal you. I can heal you." She was sobbing again, her hands no longer trying to strike him, but trying to hold him, to touch his white-blond hair. To pull him close against her chest and to never let him go.

He inhaled sharply and gave her a good, hard shake.

"You little fool!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You little _fool_! If you had the sense you should have been born with, you would run immediately! You would get away from me and never look back. You would try to keep me away." She was staring at him, sorrow and hope and love, God, love!, of all things, written so plainly on her face. In one fierce jerk, he had her pulled to his chest and pressed against where his heart hammered against his ribs. His hands were lost in her wealth of golden hair, his nose buried in it and taking in her scent. "God, you should try to run because I'm not ever going to let you get away from me. I'll never let you go. You're mine. Do you hear me?" He gave her a shake, held her at arms length and shook her again. "You are _mine_!"

And then he was kissing her and she had her arms around his neck and her tears were making the kiss so salty. He was growling against her mouth, bending her backwards and tugging at the neckline of her dress, his hands—both of his hands—everywhere on her body, all at once, when suddenly, he wasn't. His mouth was gone from hers so quickly that it left Arella feeling stunned and bereft.

Jonathan's head snapped up, his green eyes wide and bright. He let out a feral snarl as he froze, glaring pure hatred at the doorway to her cabin. Arella half-turned, still caught in Jonathan's grip. There, in the doorway, he was standing. She knew who he was immediately. The Golden One. The Angelic being from her dream, with the glowing sword and the eyes of a vengeful God. And just as instinctively she knew that this was Jace, the one Jonathan had practically summoned.

The one she had led straight to her door.


	12. Brothers in Arms

**Chapter Twelve**

Brothers in Arms

Sebastian grinned a madman's grin. He was holding a young woman, a girl with golden hair and streaming blue eyes. Her dress, a white cotton thing, had been pushed off one of her shoulders. Her lips were swollen and it had been clear she had been crying. Her eyes were still red from it. No doubt another victim of Sebastian's mania. He had arrived just in time. He was going to put an end to this—to Sebastian—like he thought he had by the river, with Isabelle.

"If you had wanted my attention," Jace drawled almost lazily, leaning one hip against the doorframe, "you could have sent a postcard."

Jonathan let out a ferocious laugh, his grip on Arella's arms so tight, she knew there would be bruises. How did they know each other? The name Jace was familiar—and not just because of what had happened to poor Bryan. In some of his worst fever-dreams, Jonathan had uttered the name, snarling and thrashing in the sheets of her bed. Sometimes he had called for someone named Clary. More than a few times he had called for her, Arella.

"Little brother," Jonathan said, his voice gone strange, distant and cold. He released Arella, nearly flinging her away. Then slowly, deliberately, he stood and placed himself in front of her. He was protecting her, she thought distantly. She sat, numbed, staring at the two. They were so similar, though they looked and sounded nothing alike. The way they held themselves, cocked their heads and moved so gracefully, each examining the other. They both moved like dancers on a stage.

"You have the _worst_ timing, Brother. Miss me so much, so soon?"

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to interrupt your plans. What comes after the pillaging and murder? Rape?"

Jace bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. They were speaking, taunting each other, but Arella couldn't hear it over the roar of blood pounding through her ears. The Golden One had noticed Jonathan's hand and had tried to cover his shock with a cavalier threat about how it could be removed again. Her dream came back in a cold wave, the fight, the smell of charred something, the blood. And she could smell it now. She could feel it. There would be blood.

"Jonathan," she said shakily, stumbling to her feet with the assistance of her mother's chair. "Jonathan, who is this? What's going on? Who is this? You don't have a brother."

Jace for a moment looked almost surprised. Then the cool, arrogant mask was back in place, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

"You found someone who can actually stomach to be near you, Sebastian? How nice for you. What a shame it's all going to end now, isn't it?"

Jonathan's green eyes flicked to Arella. "Arella, get upstairs. I will be with you shortly."

"Jonathan, you don't have to do this. Remember what we were talking about? You don't _have_ to do it any more! You can walk away." She stood on shaking legs and held out her hand to him. Her eyes were so big, so bright as she stared at him, that same mixture of hope and love on her face. "We can walk away. Together."

And then she smiled and Jonathan forgot almost everything for a moment. She was offering him a new life. If he took her hand, if he went with her now, everything would be different. He knew, in that moment, that if he took her hand and went with her he would never kill again. He would never steal another life from God. He would go with her, and she would do as she had promised. She would heal him with her angelic nature. In a flash of something—some inspiration he couldn't name—he saw a child. A little boy with white-blond hair, haughty features tempered by huge blue eyes. He was stuck on Arella's hip as she went about an apartment, doing something mundane like chores.

But if he went with her, he would never feel the rush of the kill again. Never feel a life draining away in his bare hands. Never feel that glittering, satiating satisfaction at having stolen a life as God sat back and watched and did nothing. God! Which did he want more?

The choice, when it came down to it, was an obvious one.

As he turned, his mind made up, Jace grinned a lion's feral smile and drew a long, clear blade of—what? Glass? Arella had never seen anything like it before. She had never been trained, never allowed to fight. Every aspect of her upbringing had been nurturing, loving—so she might one day be the pliant balance to Jonathan's violence.

"He isn't going anywhere. You have to answer for your crimes, Sebastian."

"Sebas—? Why does he call you that? Jonathan?"

"Go upstairs, Arella!" When she showed no sign of moving, Jonathan cursed heartily at the stupidity of the female half of the species. The front was blocked by Jace, which left Jonathan two options: Upstairs (a horrible idea); and out the back. Faster than was possible, the door out back, to where the tub was sitting, waiting on the porch for when they needed it, was flung open. Jonathan was outside in the blink of an eye, and Jace, in movements so clear and clean yet so fast—faster even than Jonathan—was right behind.

"Ithuriel!" Jace cried, his voice clear and strong, and suddenly his blade shone with a holy fire that scalded Arella's eyes with its brightness. Arella felt the name like a slap to her face. That had been the Angel, hadn't it? That had been the name Jonathan had called her…her _father_.

She was moving but it wasn't enough. She reached the back porch with feet that seemed stupid with slowness. It was like she lived her life wading through quicksand, compared to the speed at which Jonathan and the Golden One were moving. She stumbled towards the back porch steps, clinging to the railing around the veranda, unable to take her eyes off of the beautiful and deadly dance going on between the two young men. Jonathan had pulled out a long, curved knife the size of his forearm. He brandished his kukri but it wouldn't be enough. The other man had a blade two and a half times as long.

Something else was clear. Though Jonathan was fast, though his reflexes were excellent, something was different. He was growing frustrated. Jace, with every stroke, every jab and parry and elegant arc of his blade, moved with speed and fluidity that was inhuman. Jonathan's speed and grace, though astounding, was absolutely and unequivocally human.

Arella inhaled sharply, her fingers biting into the wood. His eyes, suddenly turning green; the way he had said he didn't have to kill anymore, but he still might; the sudden lack of the strength and speed and surety he had always possessed before. She had done it. She had made him human, and at the worst possible time. She had been worried at first that they were going to kill each other, these two forces battling with such animosity. But no, she was wrong. They weren't going to kill each other. The Golden One was simply going to kill Jonathan.

Footsteps came pounding around the edge of her home. A girl, short and slender and with a natural beauty that reminded Arella of fire somehow, bright and burning and so vibrant, was the first to come around the bend. She was yelling something at the Golden One, something about not leaving by himself—alone—like that ever, ever again. She was quickly followed by a young man with tussled black hair and fair skin, with large blue eyes, then a tall young woman with similar features as the young man. Both were striking in their beauty; cold as marble where the shorter girl was all heated movement and sparkling life. Then everyone was shouting, and Arella couldn't keep track of what was being said. The girl with black hair had out a long, dangerous looking whip. Her brother—he had to be—drew his own blade and yelled out, "Jophiel!"

The Golden One's face had gone white with rage and he had re-doubled his efforts against Jonathan—Jonathan who was showing the signs of fatigue as the new group of people began to make a circle around him. The red-headed girl looked on, a little bewildered it seemed, now that she had arrived. She had no weapon and when she tried to move forward, the black haired girl shoved her back.

"Stay back, Clary! It's our right to revenge our brother," she said, her blue eyes trained on Jonathan as she and her brother slowly moved behind the two fighters, cutting off any chance for Jonathan to retreat.

And then the Golden One's sword was swinging down in such a graceful arc and Arella knew, she just _knew_, that that was it. It was going to be the final blow. She was moving before she had the time to think about it—before her brain had processed that one foot was going after the other. She had never moved so quickly in her life. It felt like, for a single moment, that she was flying. She could almost feel wings moving her over the ground. And she could hear singing—a single note, calling out like gentle sunshine after a spring rain. It lifted her, made her fly.

There was a streak of white through the air, then blinding light everywhere and a heat so profound she thought for a moment that she had swallowed the sun. For a moment, she thought she saw a face: a warm, beautiful face looking upon her with absolute love. Ithuriel…she was seeing her father's face. The image dissipated as quickly as it had come. There was a sound, a scream of absolute agony and she thought it might have come from her, but then she realized it was too deep to have come from her throat.

She looked down at her chest, where the sun seemed to have settled, blinding in its heat. Golden light was spilling out of her and running down her front. Sunlight. She was bleeding sunlight. Then her knees buckled and arms, pale and strong but human, caught her.


	13. Death and All His Friends

**Chapter Thirteen**

Death and All His Friends

It was over. He knew it as the blade descended upon him. His father had been right—to be human was to be weak. He wondered what he would say to him, when he saw him again in Hell. He closed his eyes, let the blade come. A hand, smaller than his enemy's, found his chest and shoved him backwards with such startling strength that he flew off of his feet and slammed back into the steps of the porch. He landed awkwardly on his elbow and his new hand. His head snapped up just in time to see Jace, looking stunned, pull his glowing seraph blade from where it had sunk through Arella's shoulder and into her chest. It came out smoothly and easily, like a hot knife cutting through butter. Arella looked surprised, as if she hadn't exactly expected to find herself in that position. She blinked slowly at Jace, then looked down at the crimson blood pouring down her front. Someone was screaming. It took Jonathan a moment to realize that it was him.

Arella stood on trembling legs. Her left hand gently touched her stomach, her palm flat against the spot just below her bellybutton. She closed her eyes and a single tear escaped down her cheek. Her lips were moving. They were forming his name, over and over again. Then her knees began to buckle and she was falling.

Jonathan moved without thinking of the consequences. His arm where he had slammed his elbow screamed, and he was almost certain his new wrist was sprained, but it didn't matter. He caught her before she could hit the ground. He crumpled backwards, pulling her body against his chest, his breath gone ragged and fast, too fast. He cradled her to himself, her blood making her slick and slippery, hard to hold.

"Jonathan," she whispered, her eyelids fluttering. She managed to open her eyes, to put her gaze hazily on his face. "I was going…"

"Shh," he hissed, one hand going to bury itself in her hair. "Shh. Don't talk. I'll get your stele. Where is it? I'll heal you—"

"Jonathan. I was going to name him…I was going to name him Jonathan."

Her hand was still on her stomach. No, not her stomach. Her womb. Jonathan let out a strangled sound that could have been a laugh, under different circumstances.

He looked up, his green eyes flaring with an inner fire.

"Heal her!" he screamed, his throat hoarse and raw. "Heal her, damn you!"

His eyes met Jace's and suddenly it looked as if Jace had been slapped.

"Your eyes…" By the Angel, he had Clary's eyes. They weren't the fathomless black pits that they had been even when he had been born—the empty stars that glittered only with hatred and a lust for causing pain. They were green—just the blush of a shade darker than Clary's. Just as clear. Just as stunning.

"HEAL HER!" Jonathan screamed again, a cord in his throat popping. He was sobbing—when had he started crying? And why? When she knelt down beside them, he was so startled that he pulled Arella away. Clary held up her hands defensively, scowling at her brother—no, Valentine's son. Not her brother, never that.

Jonathan hadn't actually expected them to do anything. He hadn't expected them to help—not him, not _her_.

"I'm just going to try an iratze, okay?"

Watching the girl who was his sister warily, he nodded once. Clary swallowed and looked at the young woman lying prone and bleeding in Sebastian's arms. She was beyond beautiful—with golden hair that curled loosely and hung to what had to be her waist; and clear flesh the color of porcelain. Her stele trembled a little at first as she began to trace the runes for healing onto the girl's skin. There was no way that a few runes would heal that much damage but she had to try. Something about the girl—it was so familiar, but Clary couldn't place from where. She thrust such thoughts away and focused on the runes. The marks on her skin—they weren't black but a swirling, summer gold. No, not a summer gold—an Angelic gold. The color of the runes on the skin of the Angel Valentine had summoned had been—but no, that wasn't possible.

And then it hit Clary, just why the girl was so familiar. She had the same kind of feel to her—that same kind of electricity in the air surrounded her as had…as had…

She stumbled back when the runes had been completed. They were glowing fiercely and, unable to believe it, they were knitting up the open wound that dragged down from the girl's shoulder to the top of her breast. A golden light was pouring out of her wound and dizzily, Clary could hear someone singing a single note. She had heard something like that before—but this was not filled with indeterminable suffering, as the first had been. This was filled with the sound of healing—of birth and rebirth. And death. But whose?

Jonathan was a sobbing mess—truly a sobbing mess. It was impossible. He had his face pressed into the girl's neck, his arms wrapped around her. Human emotions, emotions he had never _truly _felt before, were overwhelming him. He had never known what it had been to feel—this happy, this sad, this desperate. How did anyone stand it? How could they stand there and breathe and feel and function, all at one time? He was rocking her back and forth, holding her so close. He was whispering to himself, saying over and over again, "She's going to be okay. She's going to be okay. They will be _okay_."

Clary gave large forest eyes to Jace. Jace shook his head once, the heavenly blade still held tightly between his hands. He looked just as confused as she felt. What was going on? Who was this girl, and what had she done to Sebastian?

"This is all very touching, but if you aren't going to kill him then get out of my damn way."

Isabelle shoved past the two, her whip raised high above her head. Though she couldn't see past the image of Max, little Max, with his big eyes beneath large glasses that would never open again, she didn't miss. As the whip came down, she made sure she didn't hit the girl.

She had always had, after all, very good aim.

* * *

**AN: **I apologize for the brevity of this. Epilogue will be coming soon, I promise. ~_QS_


	14. Epilogue: Leaving So Soon

**Epilogue **

Leaving So Soon

Arella stood looking out at the city, traffic bustling at all hours of the day, cars and horns and voices all mingling in a chorus she had grown to love. The first few months of constant noise had been rough, inhibiting her ability to sleep. But now, when it was all about to be gone, she couldn't imagine life without the never-ending background of sound. A breeze blew at the lace-trimmed curtains lazily. It brushed against her toes as they peeked out beneath the hem of her skirt. She could hear Jonathan's soft breathing as he slept off the afternoon heat. It had been two and a half years, two and a half long, hard years since that afternoon. There had been nights when she was sure she wasn't going to make it—when she was absolutely certain that she could not take another _moment_ without him.

Those were the times when she would quietly walk out of her room and stand beside Jonathan as he slept; lying on his back with his limbs sprawled out every which way—just like his father had. She would touch his white hair and cry, and if he woke, she would draw him to her chest and hold him until she thought she might, just maybe, be able to breathe past the pain. It had been so unfair! His life had been snuffed out, wiped away just at the brink of when it was _truly_ beginning! If only Isabelle...but no, she couldn't blame the Lightwoods. Jonathan had stolen their dear little brother from them. Even if that had been another Jonathan, she could see why Isabelle and Alec, and even Jace, couldn't forgive him. Couldn't let him go. Couldn't let him walk away. It had been hard to accept, but her son, no, _their_ son, had helped her survive.

Clary and her mother had turned out to be the two biggest influences in her life—her greatest supporters, and probably the only reason she even made it through the pregnancy. Unable to just leave her to her fate, Clary had insisted that Jace help her bring Arella back with them. When Clary had explained to Jocelyn—and then through the bits and pieces Arella had been able to speak of—of what had happened, Jocelyn had taken to the girl as if Arella was a long-lost daughter. Though Clary had never spoken of it, she knew it had something to do with the fact that this girl, this stranger, had been able to love Sebastian—no, Jonathan—when even Jocelyn, his mother, hadn't been able to do so.

It had strained their relationships with the Lightwoods. There had been a lot of talk that the baby, when he was born, was going to be like Jonathan—a demonic creature, not quite human. Jace, on Clary's behalf, had tried to be friendly with her. But when the baby had been born, looking so much like Jonathan, he had stopped coming by. And she knew that it upset both Clary and Jocelyn, as much as they both loved her little boy. It was impossible _not_ to, once they got past his striking resemblance to his father. He was all laughter and joy, bubbling with life and love for those around him. He was everything Jonathan should have been, as a baby. Everything Jocelyn wished he had been. And not a single strain of the demonic in him. Not that that had surprised Arella. She knew the moment she had become pregnant. It had been the last time, with all that sunlight filling them both. When he had become human somehow.

But it had still been so hard on them all. So, so hard. So, though Clary and Jocelyn both had told her not to, that no, she wasn't causing the problems between the Lightwoods and the Frays, that Jace would come around eventually, she had decided to leave New York.

She gazed out at the city streets one last time before turning and looking about the Studio apartment she had been renting for the last two years. She walked to where Jonathan was napping between the few stacks of boxes the movers would be picking up later. She bent down and smiled as she stroked his hair softly to wake him.

"Open your eyes, darling. It's time."

Blue irises met blue irises as he opened his eyes sleepily. He made a little moue of protest, but allowed himself to be lifted into his mother's arms. Once there and happily planted on her chest, he snuggled down and went promptly back to sleep. She laughed softly and brushed a kiss across the top of his head.

With both her arms wrapped around her son, supporting him, Arella made her way out of the apartment complex and into the weak spring sunlight as it filtered down between a few grey clouds that flirted with the idea of rain. There was a cab waiting, packed with most of the clothes and little things they could fit on the airplane. She paused a moment, soaking up the sunshine. She turned her face to the sun and felt, as she usually did when standing in the light of day, that she wasn't really alone.

That maybe, just maybe, he hadn't left at all.

* * *

**AN: **I know, it's sadder than I intended. But I think, given the situation, it ended pretty happily. I'm satisfied with it. However, if enough of you want an alternate ending where Jonathan lives, let me know. I'll write one and post it. Lots of love ~ _QS_.


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